


Stupid Tragedies

by 11dishwashers



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Gen, Ping-Pong, Short Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:43:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11dishwashers/pseuds/11dishwashers
Summary: Dongyoung rediscovers his indifference towards Ping Pong.





	Stupid Tragedies

Dongyoung stood without so much as considering the length between his feet and these myths surrounding shoulder width apart, should such a term carry weight- this was ping pong, he told himself, not something laced in all seriousness, or something stupid to be taken seriously. This was a sport regarded with condescension that required greying endurance to even hit back five times, depending on play styles. Away from the table he stood with his paddle held near his face, and in intervals that the moths orbiting the floodlights took interest in, he ran a hand along the pips so the rubber starched against his fingertips, the creases and crevices snagged. It had been a while; he'd filed for a sabbatical staged before his brain's committee. The argument presented was concerning his undivided passion he'd gone on record to possess in regards to ping pong, and then the subsequent arguments against was that a break would not only pull the curtains from his unintentionally skillful mannerisms, but would also rust his skin, do more harm than good, and kill his immune system from irregularity. Still, he'd allowed himself the break. His life had amounted to so little that without sport, he'd been driven to view even Na Jaemin's house as a retreat spot worth the monumental effort concerning two bus tickets, rather than the one that peppered his entire week with training trips. He returned. It was apparent that in a dream, perhaps, ping pong had called out to him with that unforgettable self deprecating jest. 

Hyejoo, who was a much more meritted, celebrated player in her own lane, had said the voices were a mere trace of his subconscious ideals. He'd thought that was bullshit and had let it run audible, and despite what was known in regards to her hot headedness she hadn't snarled back at the hand that pointed, and rather seemed bored by the words, and almost cutting to the chase, had handed him the paddle and told him to fuck off and do something worthwhile for once. Dongyoung still couldn't let it go understood that someone with such a potty mouth was on her way to debut in an idol group, but he supposed that was the way life went more often than not- someone noteworthy for his articulation wasted his time wearing at the stigma of ping pong, while his idiot sister never shunned sailor colloquial from her vocabulary and had her outfits tailored, had her solo music video filmed without too much whining. 

The tables had since been refurbished- no longer did the blue give off a dyed impression, but now the surfaces were so pristine they were almost appetising as a stomach filler. Dongyoung had picked a time wherein no one was known to practice, and shoved the table against the wall despite the fact that it wouldn't even be a piss poor replacement for the deflections a novice player could execute; back in the day such idle practice was necessary among greater beings when he had neither the conviction nor the skills to ask with any dignity. The paddle was carved for his hands before it had been ushered out of the factory, and he felt as such when the ping pong ball flattened and rolled in the palm of his other hand, upturned so the floodlights casted a long, spindly shadow below it, where it barbed outwards. He pushed at it with the paddle and slammed. The trajectory was awful in that way that cruised by, in line with any expectations but still adding weight to the heart. He shifted his feet and refrained from cursing. This was ping pong, and for years it had seemed to him that the entire fanbase would be eating out of the palm of his hand when the appropriate recognition was pulled from the shadows, and when he might stand in a room shaped similar to a gym but not quite, boards gorgeous enough to lick polish ganached with pip rubber from. His calling had been something treated with recklessness, and never warranted any worries about whether it might vanish one day. 

The paddle didn't feel as though it could slot in his hand so easily. However, he supposed that some margins about this might be due to his recent video game addiction, and how the controller was allowing his hand to root around its plastic case and deform into a permanent claw. The grip was too much around the handle and the air was a bit to thin for comfort, yet he hit the ball again and watched it spike- peak, really- a year ago, when he'd worn gym shorts and skin without imperfections from his healthy eating regime, his lust for ideal health so he could exceed expectations again and again and again until all expectations were only to be carved by himself so others could fall into their grooves. In reality, the ball was dead in the air and soared by mere weight alone. He bit his lip so hard a blood vessel almost had its vengeance awoken. A break of intermediate proportions, and his skills were all worn away? One didn't get that rusty without impending decline, and he felt it as such- this was the end, he could no longer hit a ball as was required by his ambitions and the judges and his fellow players in this very gym, and life had now cut him some expensive slack and some marrow from his arm, beautiful and bloody on his pillow. 

This was the moment when Dongyoung realised with a hefty start that he no longer harboured a passion for ping pong. He clutched for the past few months at its tail, but had never built himself back into his usual show pony lifestyle. He was bad because it was all the same to him, and that was the end of it all. He put the paddle down on the table and the noise rang out across the empty gym, then felt it in himself that rubbing at his temples was a given in such a melodramatic situation. Outside, the tree branches ricketted against the windows as if they were clawing away at the glass, in search of him. Ping pong wasn't to be something in his life anymore. Somewhere distant he felt like he should be sad about this, but instead his mind went to the weather outside- whether it was going to treat him, whether it was going to treat him horribly, or whether it was stale in its inhibitions. The branches scattered and whacked the glass some more. 

Dongyoung recovered his bag from the locker room and left as quietly as possible, so that even the moths wouldn't notice how the lights had been switched off in his wake.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> was going to be a fully fledged romance, but i felt when i wrote the last line that it was very much done.


End file.
